


Kenopsia

by oliverdalstonbrowning



Series: Phosphenes [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Cerebral Palsy, M/M, a phosphenes sequel!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-20 17:47:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6019375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliverdalstonbrowning/pseuds/oliverdalstonbrowning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>noun; the eerie, forlorn atmosphere of a place that's usually bustling with people but is now abandoned and quiet.</p><p>Two and a half years to the day since they first kissed on the stairs, Bard and Thranduil are miles apart and fighting every obstacle to come back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Distance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bereniceofdale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bereniceofdale/gifts).



> So, this short-fic is a gift for [Bérénice](http://acebarduil.tumblr.com/) (bereniceofdale), who is a kind, truly inspring person and a magnificent writer. I confess now to being the anon who interrogated you a month or so ago about your favourite fic tropes and, when you said Phosphenes was your favourite barduil fanfic, I was so touched that I decided to write you a sequel instead of something new. It's been absolutely agonising keeping this a secret, let me tell you. And, though it's a little late, I've written it to celebrate your first year of writing and as your gift for Valentine's Day! So, without further ado, Happy Valentine's Day, Bea! Thank you for a whole year of blessing this fandom with your beautiful, outrageously perfect stories, headcanons, and inspiring words. I hope to see more of your spectacular work in the coming year as well.  
>   
> Official Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, I am not physically disabled, and nor am I professional in matters relating to physical or mental disabilities. Any knowledge I've obtained is rudimentary and I don't claim accuracy. I am a physically abled adult who has addressed the following themes with as much respect as possible. If you have an issue with something I've written, please contact me immediately and I'll do everything I can to correct it.

Bard is brushing down the last of the chalkboards at the end of the day, his heavy sigh disturbing the white dust that settles on the ledge. It is the summer holidays; the school year is over.

    He has always met the end of year classes with mixed emotions, for while he looks forward to having time off, he was unable to shake the despondent feeling that gnawed at his stomach when he watched his students leave the classroom for the last time that term, talking and laughing amongst themselves as they shouldered bags and took up crutches or wheelchairs, filing out into the corridors of Greenwood Academy. Bard will not see them again until after the holidays, as it is regulation for the students to spend the summer with their families. He does not want to admit he’ll miss them, but a part of him cannot deny it. No matter his complaints and quarrels, being a teacher means belonging to a much larger family than you ever anticipated.

    It is already well passed after school hours, but Bard hears the classroom door open and close and he turns to see a boy walk in, carrying a stack of books so tall that it shields his face from view.

    “I found these to return to the library,” he says, setting them on Bard’s desk very carefully.

    “Legolas, you know you don’t have to hang around and help,” Bard tells him, absently picking up a copy of _Romeo and Juliet_ that is sitting on the top of the pile _._

    “I like helping. And besides, all my friends have gone home, so there’s no one to hang out with,” Legolas explains.

    Bard makes a sympathetic face. “What about Bain, Sigrid and Tilda?”

    Legolas shrugs. “Sigrid and Bain don’t like football, so it’s no fun with just me and Tilda.”

    “Tilda and I,” Bard corrects instinctively.

    Legolas rolls his eyes, but smiles.

    Bard picks up his briefcase and then hitches some of the books into his arms. He nods his head towards the door and Legolas retrieves the rest of them. Together, they walk to the library.

    The sound of their feet on the floorboards is unnaturally loud, amplified by the absence of other students that ought to be milling about, but aren’t. The school feels hollow without their presence and the swirling dust and leaves coming through the open windows makes it feel grey and unwelcoming, like the silence has already rooted itself here.

    The library is on the fourth floor so Bard and Legolas use the elevator, which arrives on the corridor where the library is kept with the classrooms for the older students. It takes up one of the many towers of the building and its contents rival that of nearly every school in the country, at Thranduil’s insistence. The endless shelves climb up and up and the gallery that circles the room is so high that even abled-bodied students are not permitted to walk on it. They are required to ask the librarian, Mrs Mithrellas, for any books that are up there.

    Mithrellas has already left for the day, so Bard and Legolas sweep through the shelves, putting the books in their rightful places. Many of them are duplicates – evidence of students having not purchased the reading material needed for classes – so it only takes the better part of half an hour to unburden themselves. Bard’s eyes linger on the volumes with the familiar leaf-symbol embossed into the spines, his fingers tracing the covers like he might find comfort in them, something he feels long starved of.

     The electricity is put out of commission as they leave the library, so Bard and Legolas take the wide staircases down to the ground floor, their footsteps echoing against the hard, dark timber.

    Bard casts a sideways glance at Legolas, observing him for a moment. He is ten years-old now, and it makes Bard realise just how much time has passed since his eight birthday party, where he and Thranduil had kissed for the first time.

    “Are you alright, Legolas?” he asks, noting the boy’s heavy shoulders.

    Legolas starts at being spoken to, but lowers his head quickly to his feet as they turn onto the second flight of stairs.

    “Yeah,” he says softly. “I miss Adar, that’s all.”

    Bard’s heart seizes momentarily, but he composes himself enough to nod in understanding. “Me too, kiddo. But he might be home by the time school starts up again.”

    “I don’t mind that he’s gone, really… I just wish we could be there with him. It must be really scary to have surgery by yourself,” Legolas says.

    “It probably is, but he’ll be in recovery soon; maybe we can fly over and see him before he comes home,” Bard suggests.

    Legolas nods, and then Bard steers the conversation to safer waters, asking Legolas about his last day and if he enjoyed his fourth year. This carries them all the way out of the school and down the path to home, which weaves through a thicket of woods that obscures their little house from prying eyes. Some students have discovered it during their time at Greenwood even though the woods are strictly out of bounds, but they know better than to cause any mischief and Bard pretends he did not overhear a group of year nine girls once talking about it.

    Sigrid is in the front garden when they arrive, cutting roses. She waves cheerfully, pushing back her curly hair, which is blonde again. Bard smiles, marvelling at how much she looks like her mother and how grown up she is. She will be attending university the following semester while Bain backpacks around Europe with Rúmil, Orophin and Meludir.

    “Do you think Thranduil would be proud, Da? I’ve tended his garden so well,” Sigrid says as Bard and Legolas swing the front gate forward.

    “Have you sent him photos?” Bard asks.

    “Not yet, but I will. I want to wait until the marigolds bloom. What’s for dinner?”

    “I haven’t thought that far ahead,” Bard says, pondering the question. “How about pizza?”

    Legolas cheers. “Can we make our own?”

    “So long as you don’t go around ‘improving’ everyone else’s,” Sigrid pipes up. “If I catch you putting crisps on my pizza I’ll put your mattress on the roof again.”

    “That was you?!” Bard exclaims, kicking off his shoes and opening the front door.

    Sigrid claps her hands to her mouth, clearly horrified by her slip-up, but she lets out a giggle. “Well, it was very funny.”

    “No it wasn’t!” Legolas snaps.

    “How did you even get it on the roof?” Bard says, more impressed than he is cross.

    Sigrid smirks. “Eowyn was over that night and she… she’s very strong.”

    Bard laughs and enters the kitchen, setting his briefcase down on the counter. Casting his eyes to the screen doors that open the backyard, he sees Tilda in the adjoining field playing football with one of the dogs from the horse farm next door, Archimedes the goat watching anxiously from the sidelines. Her hair is cropped short now and her long, agile body evades the dog with ease as it snaps at her heels. Legolas spots her too and quickly runs outside to join in.

    “Where’s Bain?” Bard asks Sigrid as she pours water into a vase for the roses.

    “Packing, I expect,” she says. Then, becoming unusually grave, adds, “Are you really going to let him do this?”

    “Why shouldn’t I?” says Bard in surprise.

    “It’s Bain,” Sigrid says, as though this sums up her concerns perfectly.

    “He’ll be fine. It’s time he went out and explored a bit; this past year has been rough on him.”

    “I know that, but I can’t help thinking he’s going to get himself into a lot of trouble. You know what his friends are like,” Sigrid goes on.

    “This is what he wants to do, Sigrid, and I can’t stop him. It’ll be a good experience for him and then he can come home and decide what he wants to do with his life afterwards,” Bard concludes, ignoring the knotting sensation forming in his stomach, because he knows there is some validity to Sigrid’s apprehensions.

    “What happened to him wanting to be a teacher?” she mumbles. Outside, Legolas is tackling Tilda to the ground, the farmer’s dog barking excitedly at them.

    “What happened to you wanting to be a photographer?” Bard quips, raising an eyebrow at his daughter.

    “I’ll have you know that I have over ten-thousand followers on Instagram thanks to my photography. Progress for the sake of progress will always be slow for artists like me,” Sigrid says haughtily.

    Bard raises both his eyebrows at this, astounded. “You have _ten-thousand_ people viewing your photos?”

    Sigrid smiles brightly, sets the flowers on the dining table, and leaves Bard alone in the kitchen. He slumps forward on the counter, resting his cheek against the cool granite surface. He wonders if Thranduil will call today, or if he, Bard, ought to try calling. When he does, Thranduil is not usually available, but sometimes it is worth a try.

    _Perhaps later._

     He sets about preparing dinner and he calls everyone in to make their own pizzas. Bain, who emerges from his room looking tired and ill-tempered, submits to Legolas’ crisp toppings without complaint because he knows it makes him happy. Bard sneaks a few healthy ingredients onto Legolas’ pizza before putting it in the oven. When the food is ready the five of them eat, and then sit around the television to watch a film. There is still no call from Thranduil, so Bard picks up the telephone in the kitchen when the film is over and dials the number for the hospital in France.

    Bard has grown used to the distance, but this brings him no comfort. Thranduil has been gone five months now, but Bard and the children only visited once over Easter, for they have all been required at school. After five long months of an empty bed and no one to come home to after work, Bard has come to accept that, though he is used to it, it is not enough.

    The phone rings six times before it is answered by a nurse. She puts Bard on hold for two minutes and when she returns he is holding his breath, as he always does when he asks after Thranduil.

    “Not today,” she says gently in her throaty French accent. “He has just come out of surgery, but I tell him you call.”

    “Thanks,” Bard mutters, and he hangs up.

    The bed feels colder than ever that night. Bard can’t stop noticing that it is never warm when he gets in - or when he wakes up - no matter how used to it he is supposed to be. Even the heat of summer doesn’t ease such palpable loneliness. He rolls over to face the window, trying to pretend that half of the bed isn’t even there. He wonders if this is how Thranduil felt when Bard had been in a coma two years ago.

   

    Bain leaves very early the next morning. Meludir, Rúmil and Orophin pick him up in the twins’ station wagon and Bard sees him off at the door, watching his eldest grinning widely in the back seat with one of Haldir’s younger brother’s. He tries not to think about the distress Bain’s trip will cause him, but Bard consoles himself by knowing it will at least provide a distraction from the distress he feels about Thranduil.

    A warm, yellow dawn peaks over the mountains through the kitchen window as Bard gets dressed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. With a quiet _snap_ of the front door, he leaves for a walk into town to get the Saturday paper.

    He remembers doing this with Thranduil; taking the long, winding path through the trees and fields to town. It is a mile there and another mile back, and on the days Thranduil was able, he would walk with Bard to the get the paper, always saying it was very good exercise and that he treasured the short hours of the morning they could wile away with just each other. But, as the months wore on, he began to walk less and less, until he couldn’t walk with Bard at all.

    It is not resentment or pity that Bard feels, but overwhelming solitude. When he had been a boy, being alone was something he valued, but now it just aches. It is no longer peaceful for him, but rather reminiscent of the absence of something – some _one_ – who had once encouraged it.

    Bard feels himself getting older when Thranduil is not around, for the passage of time is so much more prevalent when the person you love is not there to share the hours. It is like the weight of his years are finally coming down to ruin him. They have already missed each other’s birthdays this year, and it will be altogether unbearable if Thranduil misses Christmas too.

    But Christmas is months away still and Bard is optimistic Thranduil will be home before then. This surgery is his last.

    He buys bread and paper in town and, when he returns, there is a missed call waiting for him. Bard picks up the telephone immediately and dials the hospital number again, not bothering to listen to the voicemail because he already knows what it will say. The same nurse answers and her voice is bright when she puts Bard through to Thranduil at last. They have barely spoken that week as Bard has been cramming last-minute grading and Thranduil has been prepping for surgery.

    His heart skittering excitedly in his chest while he waits for his line to be transferred, Bard bustles about making coffee. He sits up on the kitchen counter while it brews, leaning against the wall where the calendar hangs, telling him it will be his late wife’s birthday in two weeks. He opens the window over the sink to feel the cool morning breeze on his face.

    “Hello?”

    Thranduil’s voice is carried over to him on the wind. Bard closes his eyes against it.

    “Hey.”

    “The nurse said you called last night,” Thranduil says. Bard notes the unmistakable lethargy in his tone. He speaks softly now, as though every word leaves him breathless.

    “How did the surgery go?” Bard asks.

    “Not too badly – so I am told. I expect I will be walking in a few days,” Thranduil says, though he doesn’t sound particularly cheerful. Bard does not blame him; this has been his fourth surgery.

    “How long has it been since you walked?”

    Thranduil hums. “Almost two months, if you count hobbling as walking. But I do not, so it has been three months.”

    “Do you leave the bed at all?” Bard ponders, his heart hurting at the thought of Thranduil being completely bed-ridden, unable even to feel the sun on his face.

    “Of course. I have a lovely young nurse who pushes my wheelchair around the neighbouring park once a day. Sometimes we go to the beach. I’m helping her improve her English,” Thranduil says, his tone now slighted with a touch of amusement.

    Bard chuckles. “Is it nice and warm there?”

    “Yes. It is doing wonders for my joints, you know. I see now how much warm weather improves my health,” Thranduil says.

    “It sounds as though you like it there.” Bard tries to not to say it sourly.

    “I would like it more if you were here,” Thranduil murmurs.

    “It’s the summer holidays now; I can come and visit. Unless… unless you’re coming back soon?”

     Thranduil is quiet for a very long time. Bard can hear the beeping of a heart monitor in the background and the sound of other people’s voices.

    “Nothing is working as well as the doctors have hoped. They want to try one last surgery, but… but it means staying here for another five months,” Thranduil finally says, his voice breaking from the effort it is taking him to speak.

    The phone slips an inch from Bard’s ear, but he takes a deep breath, trying to ignore the way his vision blurs.

    “Well… I suppose I ought to book plane tickets,” he manages.

    “Plane tickets?”

    “I’m not going to leave you there by yourself the entire time,” Bard says indignantly, still attempting to recover himself. His hands a trembling. His coffee is left sitting in the jug.

    Thranduil breathes a short, shaky laugh. “I’m sorry it has to be this way.”

    “Don’t apologise. For the sake of your health I will endure any length of time apart,” says Bard.

    “But I miss you,” Thranduil says.

    “And I miss you, but this isn’t forever.”

    “It feels like forever.”

    “But it isn’t.”

    Bard closes his eyes again, letting the wind wash over him, as if to take away his despair. It isn’t fair; they simply cannot continue this way. And yet they do; they must. In each and every lifetime there is a price that must be paid for a person’s happiness, because that’s what life does; it robs and ruins you if you dare to have even the smallest amount of joy. But Bard has had plenty of joy for two years. _Let it ruin me_ , he thinks, _and then I will be happy again out of pure spite._

    He and Thranduil talk the morning away, trying to dispel the bad news with kinder topics. Legolas wakes up and steals the phone and Thranduil does not run out of questions to ask his son; _how was your last day? Did you win your last football game? How much have you grown? Are you eating enough vegetables? Will you miss Bain while he’s gone backpacking?_

    Legolas eventually yields the phone back to Bard when he becomes too hungry to continue. Sigrid helps him with his cereal and together they crowd around the dining table with Tilda while Bard listens to Thranduil’s voice, hoping that, if they talk for long enough, the sound of it will keep his loneliness at bay for a longer stretch of time.

    “I’ll book tickets tonight,” he says.

    “I want to see your face again,” Thranduil whispers.

    “You will. I promise _. I promise_.”

    “I have physical therapy now. I will call you again when I’m able,” Thranduil concludes.

    “I probably won’t answer as I’ll be on my way over,” Bard teases.

    Thranduil chuckles. “I love you.”

    “I love you too. I’ll see you later.”

    “See you later.”

    Bard puts the phone back in its cradle, feeling lifted and soft. He grabs some bread, smearing it with Nutella while he brews another coffee.

    “Are we going to France?” asks Sigrid eagerly from over the top of her cereal.

    Bard nods. “Thranduil has to stay another five months, so we’ll spend the holidays over there.”

    “Five months?” Tilda repeats in exasperation. “What for?”

    “It’s for… another type of surgery. I don’t remember what it’s called, but he’s on the waiting list and should be put through once he’s recovered from the surgery he just had,” Bard explains.

    “But how does that total to five months?” Sigrid cuts in.

    “The physical therapy afterwards is six weeks, and then Thranduil has to go in for a check-up four months after the surgery, so there’s no point coming home when he can spend that time soaking up the heat in France. Apparently it really helps.”

    “But five months is _ages_ ,” says Legolas woefully. “He’ll still be by himself for a long time.”

    “I know, but at least we can be there for the initial surgery,” Bard says, ignoring the churning feeling returning to his stomach.

    “When are we leaving? I need to arrange time off work,” Sigrid says, already pulling out her phone to do just that.

    “I’ll book tickets for next week. Thursday?”

    “Can we fly first class again?” asks Tilda.

    “What for? The flight is barely two hours, Til,” Sigrid scoffs, shaking her head.

    “I just hate economy; I feel like a sardine.”

    Bard laughs. “I’ll get business class if there’s enough seats available.”

    “I guess that’ll do,” Tilda grumbles, stuffing a last piece of toast into her mouth.

    “You’re way too adapted to high society,” Sigrid remarks airily. “To think you come home with black eyes twice a month.”

    Tilda shrugs, and then pushes back her chair to take a shower, leaving her plate for someone else to clean up. Bard is quite bemused by her as of late. Tilda had always been quite the scrapper as a child, but in her teens she is careless rather than carefree, and can sometimes rub off as rude and unkempt. But Bard has seen this all before and has learned just to go with it. Trying to refine a person to one’s own standards only makes a monster out of the circumstances.

    With no papers to mark or errands to run, Bard relishes the warm Saturday by sitting outside in the sunshine, reading the paper and dozing to his heart’s content. Sigrid invites Eowyn over and the two of them spend the early afternoon building a makeshift swing with some rope and an old car-tyre from the farm. Bard watches apprehensively as Eowyn climbs the oak tree to secure the thick rope, Sigrid spotting her with a trained eye from below. After an extensive session of cartoons in the sitting room, Legolas joins them, while Tilda shuts herself up in her room.

    That evening, Bard browses online for tickets to France the following week. He finds four reasonably cheap business class seats and books them, his heart swelling at the thought of seeing Thranduil again. It has been too many months without knowing the touch of Thranduil’s fingers under his shirt, or the smell of his hair against the pillow at night.

    Bard goes to bed that night with his heart a little fuller than it was the day before. Though their time apart will be greatly extended, Bard is mindful only of the time he and Thranduil will soon be spending together.


	2. Ruin

Tauriel comes to visit the following Monday. She sweeps into the cottage in a flurry of leaves and sighs, her red hair tangled from the wind, because in summer she cannot stand to keep the top up on her convertible when she’s driving.

    Bard makes her tea and they sit outside at the scrubbed table by the magnolia trees, taking in just each other’s company for a while. She misses Thranduil too – Bard can tell – and she worries about him constantly.

    “What’s the surgery called?” she asks when Bard tells her that Thranduil will be away for another five months.

    “I don’t remember, but they do something to the spine,” Bard clarifies poorly.

    Tauriel grimaces. “That will be painful. I did some research on Cerebral Palsy, you know, and it’s very hard to cope with as an adult. Children can get all sorts of medical attention and it can really help them later in life, but most adults are kind of a lost cause if it wasn’t treated in its early stages.”

    “Don’t say that,” Bard says, his voice catching in his throat. “There’s nothing else that may help.”

    “What else has he had done?”

    Bard counts on his fingers. “He had contractures, fixed joints and tight muscles all released, and had his dislocated hip fitted back into place as well. He was worried they would give him a new one, but it’s more trouble than it’s worth at this stage. They’re hoping this last surgery will stop it from bothering him for a decent stretch of time.”

    “It has taken all these procedures and nothing is improved?” Tauriel says in disbelief.

    “Apparently he’s much better, but not everything is dealt with. These small surgeries just aren’t cutting it,” Bard says.

    “So what will they do now?”

    “I didn’t quite understand it, but Thranduil said they’re going to cut some of his sensory nerves to reduce the spasticity in his left side. It sounds a bit too rudimentary in my opinion, but it’s supposed to have excellent results.”

    Tauriel’s expression turns nothing short of ugly at this pronouncement. “That is the most horrific thing I’ve ever heard.”

    “I know.”

    “And it’s going to take five months?”

    Bard nods. “We’re going to visit him while school is out. I booked tickets for Thursday.”

    “He’ll like that. I wish I could go,” Tauriel says sadly.

    “Is work busy?”

    “It’s always busy. We recently commissioned some two dozen writers and now everyone is shoving their manuscripts in my face, thinking they’ll get lucky. I’ve read some truly awful stuff lately – I feel less intelligent for having even touched those drafts.”

    “That’s mean.”

    “It’s true! I kind of envy Thranduil’s tolerance towards these things now that I’m in the thick of it. I just don’t have the heart to turn writers away like he did.” Tauriel sighs, leaning back in her chair and setting her empty cup aside. “I need a holiday.”

    “Take one. Surely you can leave it all for someone else to deal with for a little while,” Bard suggests.

    Tauriel rubs her face. Bard notices how very tired she looks; no longer the blushing bride from last year, but worn-down and beaten by what Bard guesses is more than just a heavy workload. Something is deeply troubling her.

    But it isn’t his place to ask or assume. He offers her another cup of tea and they go inside where Sigrid is in the kitchen, making mac-and-cheese.

    “Oh, that looks feral,” Tauriel comments, peering down into the yellowy mush of macaroni in Sigrid’s bowl.

    Sigrid flashes a grin and scoops some out, offering it to Tauriel. She grimaces, but opens her mouth to accept the food, smiling at Sigrid. As Bard rinses out cups for more tea, he pretends not to see the way Sigrid looks at Tauriel. He wants to say something – that she’s an adult and married and that Sigrid has no right – but he cannot bring himself to take away the sparkle in his daughter’s eyes. It makes him miss Thranduil.

    “Do you think if I angle it the right way, I’ll be able to Instagram this mac-and-cheese? I once posted a picture of an apple core and it got nearly six thousand likes,” Bard hears Sigrid wondering.

    “No. Apple cores are one thing, but you can’t make art out of mac-and-cheese,” Tauriel counters sagely.

    “I accept that challenge.” And Sigrid runs off to get her camera.

    Laughing, Tauriel leans against the kitchen counter, gazing at the ceiling for a moment while Bard waits for the water to boil. Then, she turns to look at him. “Do you ever wonder if you made the wrong decision?”

    Bard blinks at her, putting tea bags into their cups. “What do you mean?”

    Tauriel shakes her head quickly. “Nothing.”

    He doesn’t press the question, but Bard has a feeling he knows exactly what Tauriel means.

    After a few games of football with Legolas and Tilda and lunch with Bard, Tauriel leaves in the afternoon, promising to come by again before their trip to France.

    But barely minutes pass before her car is screeching back up the driveway, dirt swirling into the front door. Worried, Bard runs out to meet her. Tauriel has her phone at her ear, but a free hand is pointing wildly towards the school.

    “Fire! There’s a fire up at the school!”

 

    By the time the fire brigade arrives, the fire has spread over the entirety of the upper east wing of the school, where the library is. The firemen concentrate the fire and douse it, but the damage is done. Bard looks on from a safe distance, numb with shock, watching as charred, smoking books fall from the remnants of the blackened tower.

    “All those books,” Sigrid whispers, her hand at her trembling lips. “Da, what are we going to do?”

    Bard drops his face to his hands, suddenly realising he is shaking, and that this is the only thing he can really process.

    It is well over an hour before the fire is completely extinguished. A fireman approaches Bard with a hard, dirty face, pulling off her gloves to shake his hand, which he doesn’t feel.

    “Once the smoke dissipates, we’ll get a crane up there to see if we can find out what happened. Judging by the position of the fire, there was probably someone behind this,” she says.

    “You mean someone set the place on fire?” Tauriel interjects, her face pale.

    “Probably not on purpose, but fires like that don’t happen naturally, especially this far north. This summer has been hot, but not that hot. The damage has gone as far as the second floor. You’ll need to get scaffolding in there as soon as possible so the whole wing doesn’t collapse.”

    “How long until I can arrange that?” Bard asks, pulling himself out of his stunned silence.

    “I’ll get you in touch with some builders; they should be able to get it done tomorrow morning. After that, it’s just a matter of rebuilding. It’s a good thing the place is so old; bricks like that don’t burn easily, so it’s not nearly as bad as it could have been.”

    “What a comforting thought,” Bard grumbles under his breath. “Do I need to talk to the police or make a statement?”

    The fireman points over to the police car sitting to one side of the smoking building. Two police officers are standing there, taking pictures. “Everyone present needs to provide an alibi. If we find anything incriminating, you’ll need your statements to hold up in court if we ever find the culprits.”

    “You aren’t seriously suggesting we’ll find the people behind this? Any evidence is probably burned to a cinder!” Tauriel exclaims, gesticulating towards the now non-existent tower.

    The fireman shrugs. “You never know. Sometimes we do find evidence. The front door of the school is open, so whoever it was made an escape. Are there cameras inside?”

    “There are, but the electricity was turned off for the holidays,” Bard tells her.

    “That was foolish.”

    “It’s an independent school; we can’t afford to keep electricity running when there’s no one around to use it.”

    “Well, for your sake, I hope we find something that will identify a culprit.”

    Sighing, Bard gestures and he leads Tauriel, Legolas, Sigrid and Tilda to the police officers by the car. They provide alibis and then hang around to watch the firemen climb the building in their crane, shining a torch down to the wreckage. They manage to get all the way inside the building without causing more damage, but they find nothing as it’s all been burned away, like Tauriel said. The only thing pulled out is a slightly smoking, but still legible copy of _Romeo and Juliet,_ which just makes Bard laugh bitterly.

 

    Calling Thranduil is the hardest part. No, the second hardest part. But it’s the part when Bard feels the full impact of what has happened and nearly breaks the telephone from holding it so tightly, his heart trying to beat out tears he won’t permit to escape. Outside, he can hear builders putting up the scaffolding to keep the school building upright. He can still smell the black smoke even though it has long dissipated.

    He almost doesn’t want to tell Thranduil anything; to wait it out until the last minute when he thinks Bard is about to leave. Surely Thranduil deserves a few days of hope, even if it is a false hope.

    But even that he cannot bring himself to do. Bard knows that waiting will only make it worse when he has to come clean.

    Sigrid, Tilda and Legolas are all watching him from the dining table. Bard smiles weakly and leaves the kitchen, going to the drawing room at the back of the house where they keep the books. He dials the hospital number before he can overthink it; before he wrecks himself with the grief this fiasco is already causing him.

    He asks for Thranduil as calmly as possible, trying not to notice the way his hands are shaking, wondering if they had even stopped since the outbreak of the fire. He sits on one of the sofas, shoving his free hand between his knees to steady it.

    “Hello?”

    “Hey, it’s me,” Bard says, swallowing thickly.

    The words won’t come, but they must. And they must come carefully, or Thranduil will jump to conclusions before Bard finishes speaking, because Thranduil is like that, and Bard is slow with his words when he’s trying so hard to string them together.

    “Something has happened,” Thranduil says.

    “How – how do you know?”

    “You’ve not said anything for almost a minute. Do you expect me not to know what your silences mean even over the phone?”

    Bard takes another breath. His hands are still now, but his voice is shaking.

    “I can’t come,” he manages first. Then, “The school. There was a fire.”

    It is Thranduil’s turn to be silent, and is he so for longer than a minute. Bard wonders if the line has disconnected, but he can still hear Thranduil breathing.

    “Is anyone hurt?” he finally asks.

    “No.”

    Well, that’s not entirely true. Bard is very fucking hurt.

    “How did it happen?”

    “We’re not sure. It was probably just kids fooling around in the library,” Bard explains.

    “The library?” Thranduil repeats weakly.

    “Yeah. We… we lost all the books.”

    “Fuck.”

    “I know.”

    “Do you need me to be there? I can fly over and –”

    Bard’s initial instinct urges him to say yes, but he interrupts Thranduil with a very firm “No. I’ll handle this. I want you to take care of yourself first. You’re no use to me here if it’s just going to put you in a worse condition than when you left.”

    “But –“

    “Thranduil, please. This is the last thing you need to deal with. I’ll organise all the repairs and replacements. Just stay in France and take care of yourself.”

    “Okay. You will keep me updated, won’t you?” Thranduil agrees.

    “Of course. And – and I’ll send the kids over. I already booked the flight, so they may as well spend the summer with you. They’re not needed here, and I know you miss them,” says Bard.

    “Are you sure? I do not want you there by yourself…”

    “It’ll be fine. I could use some peace and quiet,” Bard insists.

    “You said that last time,” Thranduil admonishes, the faintest hint of amusement clipping his tone.

    “Well, this time is different. And maybe Tauriel can go as well; she could use a holiday, and I’d like an adult to be with them at the house.”

    “Fine, but I am not happy about this,” Thranduil says. Bard can picture the thin line his lips must be forming.

    “What a surprise,” he mutters under his breath, though his face lifts with a smile he actually feels.

    “I miss you very much.”

    “I miss you too. But what’s five months? It’ll be over before we know it.”

    “We said that five months ago as well,” Thranduil reproves dully.

    “Must you be so negative?” Bard says with a sigh.

    “My back hurts.”

    “And that’s cause to be negative?”

    “Yes, if it is to be coupled with my school burning down.”

    “It didn’t _burn down_. It’s just… indisposed.”

    “There were thousands of books in that library.”

    “And I’ll find thousands more than that. I promise that when you come home, you won’t even notice that there was a fire at all,” Bard concludes, glad to see that neither his voice nor his hands are shaking anymore.

    They talk for a while longer on the phone, trying not to bring up the fact that five months apart from each other now await them. Bard must simply get used to it, he knows that. It’s not the quantity of a person’s company, but the quality, and in time all trials come to an end.

    _Let it ruin me_ , he thinks again. _Let it be hard, so that we can be soft._

        

    _This_ is the hardest part; driving the kids to the airport and watching them board the plane without him. Bard is confident they will have a good time with Tauriel, but he can’t help but feel sorry for his solitary self as they wave from the Departures entrance. It will be entirely too much, he realises, to be completely alone. But at least he’ll be busy.

    He gives them all tight squeezes, Legolas especially, for it’s the last Bard will see of them for the rest of the summer.

    He feels unfairly robbed of company, though it’s his own doing entirely. Coming home, Bard wonders at the silence of the small house, which is so profound it wraps itself around him like a hungry death. He doesn’t know what to do with it; fill it? Embrace it? Ignore it?

    It will be a long, stressful summer and he will be sorely tested by it, but he is determined to make it count because the school will not repair itself. And it is better this way, he thinks. Without the kids to constantly distract and bother him, everything will be dealt with quickly. Maybe even sooner than he hopes, and then he will have an opportunity to see Thranduil for a little while before terms starts again.

    But right now the only thing Bard consciously has to deal with is the gaping hole in the school, and in his house and in his chest where his family is supposed to be. He tells himself over and over that he enjoys the peace and quiet, but never once has that been true. It is the cruellest lie he feeds himself, and the highest form of punishment he is suckered into, like he is determined to be blindly self-destructive in every aspect of his life

    But it doesn’t matter now. Time passes, for better or for worse, and this too he will endure.


	3. Kenopsia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm juggling so many fics and personal stuff atm that I totally forgot chapter 3 was just sitting idly in my folder. Hope you like it!

He gets carried away with his own loneliness. He’s been on his own enough times to understand this about himself. Though he dives in and is distracted by the construction of a new tower, Bard is still forced to come home every afternoon to an intense quiet. But it is not the quiet that affects Bard as much as the absence of noise. It is a violence to enter his home and be welcomed only by the humming of the refrigerator, or the goat chewing grass outside. Bain isn’t playing video games in his bedroom, Tilda isn’t kicking her football outside, Sigrid isn’t editing photos on her laptop, the sound of her keyboard and mouse thrumming through the table in the kitchen, and Legolas isn’t on the sofa, his fingers endlessly turning the pages of books as he whispers his awes at the adventures he’s secretly having. And Thranduil isn’t there, his feet shuffling on the floor when he comes in from the garden, or his hair brushing against his shoulders when Bard is close enough to reach out and run his hands through it.

    He won’t dwell; he can’t. It’s hard enough without acknowledging it.

    And it’s only been a week.  

    “How is the school coming?” Thranduil asks over the phone one evening. He sounds more cheerful, which is the most comforting thought Bard has had all week.

    “Slowly. We’ve finally finished removing the burnt debris and books,” he says, lying back against the sofa with his arm behind his head. “It’s boring and exhausting.”

    “I thought you would enjoy the manual labour,” Thranduil deliberates.

    “My back flares up too much. Manual labour just isn’t fun anymore,” Bard says sourly. “How is everything over there?”

    “Good. Tauriel looked terrible when she got here, you know, but she seems happier now.”

    “You know, I think she and Sigrid are kind of…”

    “Oh no, don’t tell me that or I will start noticing it. She’s too old for Sigrid. And married, at that,” Thranduil says.

    “She’s twenty-four. But you’re right; best not encourage it,” Bard agrees.

    “Have you heard from Bain?”

    “Not yet. He said he’d be in touch when they were in Germany, but I daresay they’ve left by now. I should tell him to make a stop in France to see you.”

    “Don’t heckle the poor child, Bard. Let him enjoy his summer. And besides, France is last on their list,” Thranduil says.

    “Yeah, yeah. I just feel… lost without having people to take care of,” Bard mumbles.

    “Have you ever thought about taking care of yourself?” Thranduil pokes, and Bard can hear his grin through the telephone.

    “That’s a bit rich coming from you.”

    “Don’t tease me, Bard, I’m fragile.”

     Bard laughs. “Are you really? Or are you nearly recovered?”

    “I have a couple of weeks left of physical therapy, which I am completely dreading. They made me walk today,” Thranduil moans.

    “Was it that bad?” Bard frowns.

    “I had a frame and everything.” Thranduil sounds especially distraught. Bard tries his best to stifle more laughter. “I feel so old, Bard. It isn’t right, you know?”

    “I know. Are you looking forward to the surgery?” Bard inquires.

    “That is not how I would phrase it… I really just want this whole ordeal to be over. Though, I will admit it’s nice to have company again. The hospital is not far from the house, so Tauriel and the kids visit all the time,” Thranduil says happily. “We are all going to the beach next week. The doctor said I could.”

    “I’m glad,” says Bard. He tries not to notice how loud the grandfather clock in the hall is ticking, echoing through the silence. He didn’t realise how penetrating it was until now. “It’s been so long since I’ve been to the beach.”

    He didn’t meant to say quite so dully.

    “I’m sorry you are there by yourself.”

    “Don’t be. It’s my own fault I don’t go out anywhere. But if I stay here any longer I won’t know how to leave,” Bard says.

    “Go out, Bard. Don’t let my absence tether you to that house,” Thranduil says gently.

    “But I like this house,” Bard insists.

    “Stop it. I want to hear that you did something nice next time you call, okay?”

    Bard groans. “I’m not a child, Thranduil.”

    “You act like one sometimes.”

    “Shut up. I love you.”

    “I love you too.”

 

    Bard has stopped sleeping in the bed by the second week. He takes instead to the sofa, dozing off in awkward positions that hurt his back in the morning, the television humming infomercials at him or a book on the floor underneath a hand that has lost circulation in the night. It doesn’t make a difference to him anymore. Whether he sleeps in the bed or on the sofa, it is always restlessly and without much reprieve from his exertions of the previous day.

    But the school is starting to be built, and this makes Bard optimistic. The builders are smacking down new bricks on the second floor, working with such dexterity and speed that Bard is stunned to see them start the third floor the day after. He wants to help – to get his hands dirty for once – but his back is sorely paying for his nights on the sofa.

    Bain eventually calls on Wednesday, his excuse being he could not connect to any Wi-Fi at the hotels or restaurants in Germany.

    “We crossed the Polish border a few hours ago. It’s really nice here. But I can’t pronounce anything and it makes directions very hard. I don’t think we’ll stay here very long.”

    Bard laughs. “Just wait until you get to the Ukraine; they don’t even have English letters.”

    “Aw, fuck. We should buy some dictionaries. Hey, is Thranduil back yet?”

    Bard’s heart plummets. “No. He’s staying another five months for another surgery,” he says tonelessly.

    “Seriously? So are you in France now, or what?” Bain says.

    “Your sisters and Legolas are, but not me. There… there was a bit of a fire at the school.”

    Bain pauses, evidently comprehending what his father has just told him. “A bit of a fire?”

    “The library went up. I’ve overseeing its reconstruction,” Bard clarifies.

    “That’s messed up. And bad timing,” Bain sympathises.

    “Yeah, well… hopefully it will get done before the holidays are over and I can go to France for a little while.”

    “We’ll probably stop by for a bit longer if Thranduil is still there. Maybe we can all meet up,” Bain suggests.

    “Will you even make it there before the end of summer? You planned this trip until October, didn’t you?” Bard wonders.

    “Yeah, we did… I guess we’ll have to find out,” Bain adds. “Oh, I have to go. We’re being kicked out for not ordering any food. See you later, da!”

    The line goes dead. Shrugging, Bard dials a local number into his mobile to replace Bain’s call.

    “ _Greenleaf Books_ , this is Haldir.”

    “Hey, it’s Bard,” says Bard.

    A pause, then, “I’m sorry, who is this?”

    “Bard.”

    “No, I don’t know a Bard. You must have the wrong number.”

    “Haldir,” Bard says sternly.

    Haldir laughs. “I don’t hear anything for weeks, and the next thing I know Tauriel is flying off to France and you’ve shut yourself away in your little cottage? The least you could do is call more often,” he says.

    “Would you even answer? You’re more of a shut-in than I am,” Bard retorts.

    “That makes me sound sad,” Haldir rebukes.

    “You _are_ sad. Listen, I need a favour,” Bard says.

    “Oh yeah? I don’t really see why I should help you.”

    Bard rolls his eyes. What an infuriating man. “Why do you sound like a mafia hitman on a b-grade television show? I just need some books. The school library burned down.”

    “Whoa, really? That escalated. What do you mean by books?” Haldir asks.

    “Text books… general reading material. Do you know if there’s a way to get donations or start some kind of fundraiser? I don’t really want to spend more money than I have to,” says Bard.

    Haldir is quiet for a moment, thinking. “Well, I can order some books from the shop for you, and that will be free. Let’s say two or three of everything? And I can put ads in the paper and online for book donations to ‘the school that burned down.’ Has it been in the paper?”

    “It didn’t _burn down_ , but yes, it has. Front page news and everything. I’m surprised you haven’t heard, actually,” Bard says.

    “I don’t read the paper; bores the shit out of me. Okay, order for a ludicrous amount of books – check – ads in the paper – check. Where do you want people to bring their books to?”

    “The school, I suppose. But make sure it’s the school address not my home one. I’ll be around to collect everything,” Bard decides.

    “Sounds good. I’ll organise it all and e-mail you the details. By the way, when is Thranduil coming back?”

    “Not for ages. He has to stay five more months for another surgery,” Bard says. He has grown tired of telling people. It makes his stomach hurt.

    “Fuck, really? That a tough break, man. I might call him, in that case. And have you heard from my brothers? Little shits haven’t gotten in touch yet,” Haldir adds.

    “I just got off the phone with Bain. They’re in Poland.”

    “Oh, okay. Well, I have to go. I’ll get back to you on the book situation.”

    “Thanks, Haldir,” Bard says, and he hangs up.

 

    The books start coming the following week. Upon hearing that a prestigious school owned by ‘that famous ex-publisher’ is in need of a new library, the local townspeople and city folk rise valiantly to the occasion of donating their unwanted books. Bard feels quite overwhelmed at the swarm of people that arrive, juggling bags and boxes full of paper goods. It is strenuous work, putting everything away into empty classrooms and hallways, but Bard enjoys it immensely, for the people who arrive chat boisterously and give him their best wishes, lifting his lonely spirits. Even Haldir offers a hand, helping Bard organise the books into categories, and when Percy and Erestor find out about the donation, they come by as well, and Bard finally has something to tell Thranduil.

    “We’re going for drinks on the weekend. I said I’d shout them for all their help,” he says, with as much enthusiasm as he can muster given the state of his back, which has persuaded him to lie on the floor for the sake of relief.

    “I hope those books people have donated are suitable for a school library,” Thranduil remarks dryly.

    Bard laughs. “We’re getting them for free, Thranduil, I don’t think you’re in a position to complain about the content. But you make a valid point; I’ll have to sort through them before putting them on the shelves. Which reminds me… I might have to ask Mithrellas in to help me with that. I haven’t told her that the library burned down; she’s going to flip.”

    “Isn’t she in Spain this summer?” says Thranduil.

    Bard groans. “Just my luck.”

    The phone is silent for a little while as Thranduil pauses. Instead of the beeping of machines, Bard can hear the soft rustle of trees, and the sound of a football being kicked. It comforts him to know that Thranduil is currently outside, free of the restraints of a hospital bed. He imagines that must be Tilda and Legolas kicking the football.

    “Are you sure you don’t need me to come home?” Thranduil finally says. Bard can practically hear him chewing his lip.

    “No. I need you to have your surgery so you can come home for good,” he insists. “You’re no use to me still in pain.”

    “That doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence, Bard,” Thranduil says tersely.

    Bard arches his back against the floor, his brow furrowing at the strain it puts on his muscles. “Your surgery will be soon, won’t it?”

    “Eight more days. I’m positively beside myself with impatience,” Thranduil admits. “I have never known days to pass so slowly, and yet for weeks to feel like barely hours.”

    “That does tend to happen,” says Bard, trying his best not to empathise completely, though finding it difficult. In truth, he knows exactly what Thranduil means by the peculiar passage of time. Nothing seems quite real anymore; there is only the crippling absence of those he loves, and that makes all things somehow distorted, like a memory of a song he can't name.

    Bard gets to his feet, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder to stretch and brush down his t-shirt.

    “How are the kids?” he asks, realising the conversation had stalled.

    “Good. They miss you,” Thranduil says, his tone suddenly softer.

    “They’ve missed you more, believe me.”

    “Are you sure you’re okay by yourself?” Thranduil says.

    Bard rolls his eyes. “Do you ever stop worrying? Where’s your off switch?”

    Thranduil makes a very unattractive noise like a rubber duck being stepped on and Bard laughs again.

    “I’m fine.”

    “If you say so.”

    Then, there is nothing more to talk about.

    Bard hates this part; the part where the conversations fall short. He could waffle on about what he had for breakfast, or that the neighbour’s dog chased a rabbit into the backyard two days ago, but anecdotes are not the same when Thranduil isn’t there to pull faces or nod in his serious way. This is it, Bard realises, this is the hardest part of being separated; when you want to talk about everything, and yet have nothing to say. The desperate, penetrating absence of anything at all.

**Author's Note:**

> It was so nice to come back to these guys, even if it's to delve once again into the bottomless pit of angst. I'll try and update regularly (I have so many fics happening right now I am internally screaming). I have a few chapters already written. I wanted to finish it but, because of who I am as a person, it got out of hand and I ran out of time. Anyway, I hope those reading enjoyed coming back to this AU just as much as I enjoyed writing it again.


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